


Keep Me Covered (I Need You to Run to Me)

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Fighting, First Kiss, Fist Fights, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, No Smut, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Post-Hogwarts, Secretly Soft Boys, mild pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: Fighting and (not-quite-yet) fucking... that's basically it. A ficlet about these two friends who love each other but don't even realise it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 29
Kudos: 297





	Keep Me Covered (I Need You to Run to Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onereader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for my dear friend [onereader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/onereader).  
> Bella, it has been a joy getting to know you, and you're such a huge and important part of my life. I'm sorry that this fic doesn't capture the breadth of your impact on me, but please know that this dirty dishwater was collected and wrung out with love! Happiest of birthdays, my dear.
> 
> Thanks as always to my partner in crime [dualwieldteacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualwieldteacup/pseuds/dualwieldteacup), and to [maesterchill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill) for her swift help and cheerleading.

“Peacocks, Malfoy? Really?” 

He sounds amused, but he watches me as intently as he always has, even if these days it comes with a smile in his eyes.

His gaze is a brand—glass, grass, Killing Curse—the hot green taunt of it following me as I stand taller, reach up to undo the buttons that press flat against the line of my throat. I take my time with it—no wand touch, just the coax and nudge of my fingers against each cool nub of jasper. 

He keeps watching me as I go, brazen and quizzical and relaxed. As the last button releases, I shrug at him, feel the cloak loosen with the flexing span of my shoulders. He wrinkles his nose, mock belligerence undercut by that blasted playfulness that most people don’t get to see—that marks me out as a friend. I still find it all a bit odd, that finally, after all those false starts and bad turns, we’ve found our way onto this strange but lovely path together.

I laugh backwards at him as the cloak slips off my shoulders in a cool whisper of wool and velvet. Perhaps the gold embroidered peacocks _were_ a touch excessive, but the other Aurors are always going to stare at a Malfoy in their ranks no matter what, so might as well give them something to look at.

Potter follows the slide of the cloak down my body to where it puddles on the floor, before I scoop it up with a flourish, then he rolls his eyes ostentatiously at me as he kicks his trainers off. He’s infuriatingly casual, as usual—jogging bottoms slung low at his hips, hood up. He starts to unzip, nudges me sideways with a gentle elbow as he moves in close to hang his hoodie up next to my cloak on the coat rack. He flew here today, I think; I can smell the sky off him this close up, that faint, hazy tang of ozone and chimney smoke and the crisp blankness of December chill.

“Good luck in there,” he tells me, and his voice is fond, like he means it. 

“I’m going to destroy you,” I assure him, oh so gently, and then he pokes me in the stomach in feigned outrage and we laugh at each other helplessly until they call us in.

* * *

We circle the mat. 

Our feet and arms are bare—all the better to show off our footwork and casting techniques, Massima tells us—and I can see the faintest shiver of his reined-in magic over the curve of his biceps and along the tense line of his forearms. We keep our wands low, eyes on each other (like always, I think, before I shake _that_ thought away, let my mind clear, allow calm to envelop me like the silent swallowing billow of a fresh sheet on a bed). 

We circle the mat. 

Across from me, he shakes his froth of curls out of his eyes, blows impatiently out of one corner of his mouth to dislodge the last unruly tendrils. He’ll need to watch me closely, to _keep_ watching me closely, and he knows that. I’m more than ready for him. Our eyes meet. He winks, the fucker, like he doesn’t mind everyone seeing that we’re friends now. I tighten my grip on the handle of my wand, and his eyes slide down to follow the movement, to track the almost imperceptible quiver of spellwork in action. He knows me too well.

We circle the mat.

He smiles. It’s a heartstopper, that smile—rich with mischief, ripe with the promise of some sort of devilment. It makes me want to hex him sideways and then kiss that smile right off his mouth until he opens up gasping for me. At least I can take care of the hexing part, I think. And as for the kissing part—well, I’m used to wanting what I can’t have, at this stage. I have more of him than I ever did before, at least—this easy friendship, the press of a shoulder against mine at the bar, the slow unfurling of a smile over the first coffee of the day. Partners.

We circle the mat.

He goes in hard and fast, like he always does, and I’m ready for him, like I always am (for the most part). It’s just a training exercise, so there’s nothing too tricky or dangerous involved—nothing above Defence NEWTs level, is the unspoken agreement, nothing that’ll do any real damage—and I’d love to be able to say that they’ve only roped him in because of his name, to impress the incoming recruits, give them something to tell their parents about. But then I feel him casting, and I’m ducking before anyone else notices, and even though my _Protego_ is instant, the force of his first spell has me swaying on my feet. In my peripheral vision, I see some of the Trainees hit the floor in a panic, as though they’ve forgotten that they’re protected behind a spell-proof barrier. They laugh, sheepishly, dust themselves off, embarrassed. And I want to tell them not to worry—instinct is everything in this job, and if Harry Potter is casting, then you should get the fuck out of the way as fast as you can.

He’s gone for _Expelliarmus_ this time, the prick, and the upstroke of his wand motion on the last syllable has more than a hint of a flourish. He’s learned to enjoy his audience, it seems. And the worst thing is, although I manage to keep a hold on my wand, and I even have him twirling and dipping to avoid a series of my _Aves Mordentis_ , I can _feel_ my wand wanting to answer his summons. It’s not aggressive, his Disarming Charm, more of a gentle tug, an enticement. He shrugs at me when I tighten my grip and throw him a glare across the mat, his hands outstretched in mock supplication. My wand likes him, and he knows it. Magic is all about intent, after all—Potter might as well just walk up to me and pluck the wand out of my hand, if my stupid heart has anything to say about it.

We circle the mat.

We’re both panting a bit now, having to work a little harder to protect ourselves. I’m smarter with my casting—well, that wouldn’t be hard—but he’s so fucking fast, and brutal, and uncompromising. I haven’t fought a formal duel in so long, and it’s been even longer than that again since I fought against Potter rather than beside him. I’ve missed it, the push and pull of it, though on balance I prefer him by my side than at the wrong end of my wand. But we’re as good against each other as we are together, or almost at least—know your enemy, Massima always says, and no one knows me like Potter does.

We circle the mat.

He’s prowling now, feinting, setting up a jab but following it through with a sweep, keeping me from guessing what’s coming. It’s effective, but it means his casting is off just a touch, and he’s getting tired. I get him in a full _Revolvo_ , and have the snapping tendrils of a Bind licking at him before he manages to break free. It takes him to his knees though, and through the gaping cut-out back of his training vest I can see the powerful roll of his shoulders, the taut ridges of his back muscles working with every panted breath. There’s a gleaming line of sweat running from the nape of his neck along the graceful jutting curve of his spine. I give him a minute to stand, watch the light catch on the faint rosy flush of his nipples through the white cotton, allow the trainees to give him an encouraging cheer as he hauls himself to standing again. It’s good sportsmanship, after all.

We circle the mat.

He grimaces at me as I use the hem of my top to wipe my own face dry, and flicks a Leg-locker at me without even waiting for me to get the sweat out of my eyes. I have to do an undignified little dance to avoid it, and in return I hit him with an _Everte Statum_ that’s probably a bit too forceful, judging by his growl of frustration. It’s what I’ve been waiting for, that moment where he loses control of all that power, and while he’s windmilling backwards, trying to focus his _Carpe Retractum_ , I plant my feet and cast my own cheeky little _Expelliarmus_. It works, like I’d never imagined it could, and within a heartbeat the palm-warm length of holly slaps into my hand with just the faintest sizzle of his magic still humming through the wood. I laugh out loud with the shock of it.

Distantly I can hear a buzz of excited chatter from the trainees, but I just watch Potter as he stalks towards me as though I don’t have a wand in each hand, as though I’m not dangerous at all. He’s so close now that I can smell the fresh salt of his warm sweat. 

He’s smiling at me when he delivers the first punch. 

It’s nothing much, just a neat little right-handed sweep of knuckles against my jaw, but there’s a hint of force behind it, and of course I wasn’t expecting it. It propels me sideways before I manage to regain my footing, shaking my head from the ringing in my ears and the shock of shame.

“What the fuck, Potter?” I manage, before he’s on me again with a deliberate one-two step and a sharp jab to my nose that causes a hot bloom of pain before I manage to pull back just in time to avoid a break.

“Muggle boxing classes, Malfoy. I don’t need magic to do some damage.” He has the audacity to grin at me, and then his fist connects with my stomach in a swooping upthrust that knocks the air out of me. The cheating bastard. Well, I haven’t got through Auror training without fielding a few ambushes in the halls—not with my bone structure, and my dirty history, and my tainted bloodline. I’m not so easy to take down.

I drop the wands without even really noticing, and even while I’m still gulping to catch my breath, I’m hurtling towards him, and I manage a sharp jab of elbow in his solar plexus that leaves him gasping, before the force of my onrush takes him right down onto the mat with me on top of him, going down swinging. I give him a whack in the mouth that splits his lip open before he manages to halt the arc of my next punch with his hand, and this close I can see the straining whipcord muscles of his upper arms as he tries to push me off him. 

“You’re a dirty fucking cheater, Malfoy,” he grunts, and I’d fucking swear that he’s almost laughing again. 

He gets the heel of his hand under my chin, pushes the pads of his fingers against my mouth while the jolt rattles my teeth. My mouth tastes of him—copper and salt, and the crackle of winter air, and the faintest curl of almost-fresh smoke. I keep my eyes on him as I lean away and spit the taste right out of my mouth. The spit is flecked and foamy with blood. He laughs again when he sees it, bucks hard upwards with his hips, and rolls me right over.

It’s all heat then, and the slide of his skin under my fingers, and we’re not even trying to hit each other anymore, just pushing and shoving and trying to _win_. I scramble to my feet, with him not far behind, but with one swift, dazzling run he ducks out of my reach and gets an arm across my chest, and my bare feet scrabble for purchase on the mat as he spins me to the wall and slams me against it. He put his whole weight behind the push, and then he stops and just leans there, holding himself against me, every part of me covered by the heaving, solid heat of him. We’re slotted together, chest to chest, and his knees knock against mine where our legs intertwine in the exhausted, post-adrenaline slump of a finished fight.

His mouth is at my ear, and all I can hear is the thunder of my own heartbeat and the jubilant rush of our shared breaths, and his whisper of, “Do you give in, Malfoy?” 

And maybe it’s the rasp of his stubble against mine, or the heady sharp smell of apples from his hair, or the way I can feel him laughing against me, but I turn my face into his, too close for anything like fighting, and I tell him that I do, I give in. And his face turns very serious at that—though I’m so close that I can only notice each bit of him individually. But I can see it all, beginning in the delicate deepening crease between his eyes, and the perplexed curl of his blood-reddened mouth, and the beginnings of another, softer smile in his eyes. 

I look back at him, and I don’t think either of us really knows what’s happening, but all of a sudden it’s very quiet. I can see the restless flicker of his pulse at the base of his throat. He swallows, the jerky nervous tension of it telling me something that I hadn’t realised until now, and I see his eyes drop to my mouth once, twice, three times. 

And I realise he’s going to kiss me now—here, in this dingy windowless duelling room, with twenty trainee Aurors standing confused behind us—and I’m just going to stand here and let him. 

And not only that, I'm definitely, positively going to kiss him back. I'm going to lick the glisten of sweat off the dip of his Cupid’s bow, I’m going to take his split lower lip between my teeth and run my tongue over the blossoming bruise there, I’m going to open up for him until he’s moaning my name into my mouth. I’m going to give him everything. 

A sharp clap sounds from Massima—the brisk, irritated snap of the hands of an annoyed Auror-in-Charge who's probably wondering what exactly her lovingly-planned duelling technique display has turned into—and then the rest of the onlookers begin a confused smattering of applause. Just like that, the spell is broken (and it’s just as well, really, because if he had kissed me in that moment I would have forgotten about every single one of them watching, and Merlin knows I’ve had to work hard enough to get here, without being slung out on my arse for frotting against Harry Potter on Ministry time, against a Ministry wall, in front of twenty-odd minor Ministry employees).

Potter steps away from me, reluctantly, still breathing heavily. His eyes are still on my mouth, I'm pleased to see. Massima joins us, shepherding the trainees ahead of her, her clear, instructive tones ringing out over the rushing thud of my pulse and the memory of Potter’s fever-fast breath in my ear. 

She mentions words like unorthodox, and unconventional, and I’m pretty sure there’s a strong exhortation in there that no one should ever attempt to fight wandlessly, but she seems to have decided to take a positive stance on things. By the end of her speech, she’s praising our efficiency, and the applause that follows is more enthusiastic. We smile, tiredly, and wave goodbye to them as they—finally, blessedly!— leave. And then it’s just us, and the aching silence of the duelling room, and Potter’s slow-spreading smile.

We circle the mat.

“Nice work, Malfoy.” He grins at me, sticks out a hand. I shake it, of course, and it’s by no means our first touch, but there’s a wealth of promise in the clasp of it, in the compelling force of his grip, in the lingering curl of his fingers against the heel of my hand.

I don’t let go. Instead, I pull him in—gently, to give him the chance to back away if he wants to, but I can already tell he doesn’t want to—and I laugh back at him as he draws closer. 

“You fight dirty, Potter,” I say, but my smile keeps getting wider the more he smiles back at me, and he kicks my feet apart and steps in against me, boldly, like he’s meant to be there (and it certainly feels pretty fucking _right_ , if I’m honest). And then he really does kiss me, as soft as anything, just a fleeting taste of his warm, beguiling mouth, and he tightens his hand around mine. I suppress the whimper that threatens to emerge when he pulls his mouth away, but he laughs like he heard it anyway.

He wraps his other arm around me, places a possessive hand at the base of my spine, and jerks his chin towards the door in the corner, the door I hadn’t noticed until now, the door marked _Changing Room_.

“Fancy a shower, Malfoy?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Please come and say hi on Tumblr!](https://tumblr.com/%5Btackytigerfic%5D)


End file.
